I brought up the rear, trailing Roxy. Stopping at the threshold, I glanced around and soaked it all in. I’d expected a gritty warehouse, men huddled around the ring, shouting and screaming for their top pick. To my surprise, this reminded me of a restaurant. The dim lights cast an intimate glow over dozens of round tables, each containing a small shaded lamp. A quarter of the spectators were women who’d dressed to impress—designer gowns and jewelry that flashed with diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires against their throats and wrists.
At the opposite end of the building, hidden in the shadows, an enormous framed dais stood fifteen feet off the ground. It didn’t hold my attention for long though. Instead, I turned my gaze toward the fighters, who’d just started a fresh round. An octagon rose up from the middle of the room, surrounded by an eight-foot black fence.
Whoever staged these fights didn’t spare any expense. This wasn’t a seedy brawl. It was an event.
The men—featherweights, maybe—circled each other, punching and kicking. I mentally named them Black Shorts and Braveheart—not because he wore a kilt, but because he had a giant red heart inked across his throat. Ouch.
Roxy elbowed my side. “This is big time, Rose. There must be a shitload of money tied up in this racket.” No kidding.
A man in a white jacket appeared in front of us. “Ladies, we encourage the spectators to remain seated. Let me show you to a table.”
The…maître d’?…circumvented the grouped tables, so as not to impede anyone’s view, and led us to the far side of the room. He waited until we were seated, then handed us a cocktail menu.
Roxy shoved another piece of gum in her mouth. “This place doesn’t look dangerous.”
“From what Jimmy told me,” Sugar said, “they set these up on the fly. The Joes don’t even know where it’ll be or when. It’s all a big mystery until the morning of.”
“How do they buy tickets?” I asked.
Sugar leaned her elbows on the table. “Not sure, but I’ll find out for you.” She glanced around. “I know a lot of promoters and club owners. Whoever is throwing this shindig hired professionals.”
A few moments later, a waiter arrived. Since I was driving, I ordered a coke, and the girls decided to split a bottle of champers. But the waiter didn’t walk away. He gave me a strange look and nodded at the menu.
Eyeing him warily, I opened the oversized, leather binder. This wasn’t a wine list. It contained the fight lineup and included the fighters’ stats—their ranking, height and reach, past wins and losses. This guy wasn’t here to take our order, he was here to place our bets. Freaking ingenious.
I glanced up at him. “Can you give us a few minutes?”
He nodded once and walked away. As soon as he left, I huddled in. “Girls, this is a menu for the fights.”
Roxy grabbed it out of my hand and read the first page. “That’s crazy brilliant.”
“How much are we wagering?” Sugar asked.
“Nothing. We can’t afford it.” I glanced around the building, checking out the “Joes,” as Sugar called them. I didn’t see any fighters, but I did spy a door catty-corner from our table. “I wonder if that’s the locker room. Anybody want to come with me and find out?”
Sugar raised her hand. “Me, me, me.”
Roxy closed the menu. “I’ll stay here and mingle. See if I can uncover any clues.”
Sugar stood, grabbed my hand, and wiggled her way to the door. As I followed, my gaze fell on the octagon just in time to see Black Shorts throw a haymaker and knock Braveheart back a few steps. Braveheart staggered. His nose immediately swelled and blood ran freely down his chin. Black Shorts seized the advantage, knocking Braveheart to the ground before delivering a series of brain-rattling punches.
When Braveheart’s eyes rolled upward and his body went slack, the ref stepped in and stopped the fight. The crowd erupted around me, pushing out of their chairs and clambering to their feet. The cheers were almost deafening.
I turned away, feeling slightly nauseous, and teetered behind Sugar. When we reached the doorway, she glanced at me from over her shoulder and dropped my hand. “Ready?” she mouthed.
I nodded.
Sugar strolled into the room, putting all of her allure into every ass-thrusting step. I popped in behind her to check out the scene. A few couches had been set up beside three rows of small lockers. Two dozen dudes—some half-dressed, some straight-up full frontal—swaggered around in a parade of flesh. Abs and butts and dorks, oh my!
“Oops,” Sugar said in a loud, sexy growl. “I don’t think this is the powder room.”
That got their attention. Every head, big and otherwise, whipped toward Sugar. I used the diversion to scour the room. I spotted Carlos, the guy Roxy had been talking to at the gym yesterday.
I sidled up to him. “Hey, remember me?”
“What the hell are you doing here, lady?”
By this time, Sugar had a group of men circling her. And some still hadn’t pantsed up, which didn’t seem to faze her in the least.
“So,” I whispered to Carlos, “you said Rob Huggins almost lost a fight a couple weeks ago. To whom?”
He glanced around, made sure no one was eavesdropping. “Tyler Godfrey. Where is Rob, anyway? Haven’t seen that guy for days, man. That ain’t like him.”
I avoided his direct gaze and stared at my feet. “I’m still looking for him.”
“Well, good luck. You need to leave now. I got a fight to win, can’t be having no distractions.”
“Sure. Break a leg or whatever.” As I walked toward Sugar, the guy from the gym yesterday—Mohawk—caught my eye. Wearing nothing but a pair of tiny green shorts, he propped his hands on his hips and glared at me. This guy obviously had an issue. Time to find out what it was.
I strode up to him, dodging two men getting dressed. There may have been bare butts involved. I hardly noticed. Twice. I nodded a greeting, but Mohawk continued to stare at me with a set of steely blue eyes. “I saw you in the gym when I was speaking to Mr. Madison.” He kept quiet and continued to stare. “Do you have a problem with me or something?”
His hands fell to his sides, and he fisted them before stepping closer. This guy was only two or three inches taller than me. While he wasn’t as bulky as some of the other men, his body was shredded, his muscles rock hard solid. “Yeah, I got a problem with you. You’re looking for Rob Huggins.”
I fought the urge to turn and run out of the room. His eyes were devoid of anything human, and he scared me. But I didn’t like bullies. Time to be brave, Rose.
Taking a shallow breath, I flashed my own metaphorical balls and advanced on him, bumping his chest with my own. “What’s it to you?”
Instead of pounding me into the ground, he grinned. “You got guts, girl. I’ll give you that. Rob’s an asshole. Ain’t got no love for him. If he’s gone, good riddance.”
“Why do you hate him so much?”
“I don’t like cheaters.”
Before I could ask for details, he side-stepped around me and left the room. “Well, thanks for nothing,” I said out loud, to no one.
I should get back to Roxy, help her question the Joes. I tried to let Sugar know I was leaving, but men continued to swarm around her, like horny little honey bees.
Putting two fingers in my mouth, I blew out an ear-shattering whistle. At the sound, everyone stopped talking and turned in my direction.
“I’m going to find Roxy. You good, Sugar?”
She gave me a bright smile. “I’m perfect. These boys will keep me busy for a while. Won’t you, gentlemen?”
She received a chorus of masculine agreement, mostly in the form of grunts.
All righty. I walked back to the main room of the warehouse where another fight was in progress. These guys were a bit beefier than the last pair. I s
kirted the tables, searching for Rox, and noticed her sitting with two couples.
I slid up behind her, tapped her shoulder. She stood and we moved to stand by the wall. “Guess what?” she asked. “I found out the name of the guy who almost beat Rob.”
“Me too,” I said. “Tyler Godfrey.”
“Hell, Rose. That was my news.”
“Sorry. Is he fighting tonight?”
She nodded, causing the cherry-topped cupcake to bounce back and forth. “The final fight of the night. Did you learn anything else? Where’s Sugar?”
“She’s got groupies. I found out that Rob may have been cheating.” Before she could ask, I held up a hand. “The guy who told me was very vague about it.”
She opened her mouth to say something when the crowd began cheering. I glanced over at the octagon. One of the fighters lay on the ground, unconscious. His left eye had swollen shut and his split lip oozed blood. I shuddered at the sight.
Then two enormous men opened the fenced door and stepped into the ring. With blue latex gloves protecting their hands, they hauled the unconscious man to his feet and dragged him toward the locker room.
I hated it here—the blood, the savagery—but I was determined to stay until I talked to Tyler Godfrey. How did Rob cheat? Did he beat Tyler by using some underhanded trick? Could Tyler have been angry enough to kill Rob and make it look like a suicide?
Leaning against the wall, my eyes flitted around the room, searching. For what, I couldn’t say—just something that would lead me to a freaking clue. Or Will Carlucci. Then my gaze landed on the dais.
Women, much less sophisticated than the other female spectators, flowed up and down the stairs leading to it. These ladies had crossed over the sexy line and veered into trashy town. Lots of big hair, artificial tannery, fake boobs, and slinky dresses in colors my mother would have deemed tasteless—hot pink, bright purple, orange. Leopard print.
I jerked my head toward them. “Do you suppose Carlucci and Sanders are on that dais?”
“Dais. That’s a word now?” Narrowing her eyes, Roxy craned her neck and tried to peer through the shadows. “If they’re here, that’s where they’d be. I say let’s go bold and find out.”
“Storm the dais?”
“Let’s go storm the hell out of it.” She held her fist out and I bumped it with my own.
Squaring my shoulders, I marched to that distant corner. During the intermission, people were milling around, so I worked my way through the crowd. When we reached the bottom step, a voice rumbled from the center of the octagon.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The next fight is ready to start.”
Chatter rose from the crowd. Feet scuffled against the concrete floor. At the sound of the emcee announcing the fighters, I hesitated. Two women rushed by me on the steps, racing to the top. Roxy poked my hip with her sharp nail to keep me moving.
It worked, and I started climbing again. I stood on the top step, and though the overhead lights had dimmed, there were tabletop lamps up here too.
Women darted about like colorful butterflies. Some stood in groups, drinking from champagne flutes, puffing away on filtered cigarettes. There were only four men up here, and none of them glanced my way. I took a moment to formulate an impression.
The platform was much larger than I’d imagined, holding several round tables. I shouldn’t have been shocked to see Al Bosworth, manager of Carlucci Motors. The girl sitting on his lap was young enough to be his daughter. Will Carlucci himself sat at an adjacent table, two brunettes on either side of him. He’d slung his arms around their shoulders, cupping a boob in each hand. My mom had been right—Carlucci was odious.
In the dim corner, at a table for one, sat Wyatt Sanders. Wearing a fierce expression, he watched the fight, never taking his gaze from the octagon. A fourth man sat at the farthest table. In his mid-thirties, his wheat blond hair and clean profile made him GQ handsome. Though girls hovered behind him, chattering like rabid squirrels, his eyes were fixed on the octagon as well.
I’d talk to the mystery man first—he had an air of being in charge. Besides, Wyatt Sanders was giving off an invisible “Do Not Disturb” vibe. I’d tackle him last.
“Rox, do you want to talk to some of these ladies? I’ll hit up Blondie, then we can tag-team Sanders in a minute.”
“You got it. We’ll get that bastard to squeal like a twelve-year-old girl. I brought my brass knuckles along, just in case we need them.”
“Seriously? You came prepared for a beat down?”
She stopped smacking her gum. “Rose, you can’t come to a place like this and not be prepared. Get with the program.”
Good point. All I had was a can of pepper spray rolling around in the bottom of my handbag. The next time I came to a warehouse for purposes of illegal chicanery, I’d be better armed.
I left Roxy at the top of the stairs and elbowed my way through a group of girls crowding around the blond Adonis. I made quick eye contact with Al Bosworth on the way. It didn’t look like he recognized me. Or if he did, he was too preoccupied by the barely legal double D’s bobbing in his face to care.
The ladies didn’t like me jockeying for position, and I took a painful shot to the ribs before grabbing a chair. I scooted it close beside him and plopped down. “Who are you rooting for?”
He slowly turned his head and eyed me. “I didn’t give you permission to sit there.”
Haughty. We weren’t off to a good start. “Is there a seating chart I should know about?”
His left brow twitched in amusement as his glance stole over me. “I know you. Rosalyn Strickland, right?”
My folks were the only ones who called me by my given name. “How do you know my parents? Same country club?”
“No.” He didn’t elaborate.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Hardly.”
Now I was puzzled. “You’re friends with my sister?”
“I’ve never had the pleasure.”
I refused to play twenty questions. “Well, you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“You’ll always be at a disadvantage with me, sweetheart. Get used to it.” Cocky and haughty. What an annoying combination.
“How do you know my name?”
He didn’t deign to answer, his gaze flicking back to the match.
“Are you in charge of the fight club?” I asked.
“Inquisitive. I’ve heard that about you.”
This deflection business was starting to piss me off. I gave him a onceover. “Am I supposed to be impressed with this too-cool attitude? Because I’m not.”
He chuckled low in his chest. “That’s your second mistake.”
“Really?” Curiosity got the better of me. “What was my first?”
“Being here tonight. This is hardly the place for someone like you. Little rich girl playing on the wrong side of the tracks. But you like danger, don’t you? Is that why you’re with Sullivan?”
My mouth popped open before I quickly snapped it shut. He must be one of Sullivan’s criminal counterparts. At least it made sense now—how he knew about me. Sullivan kept detailed records on everyone in his life, this guy would do the same.
“Funny,” he continued, “I don’t picture the two of you together. I think you could pull better, Rosalyn. Must be the bad boy thing, am I right?”
He didn’t know the first thing about me, let alone my complicated relationship with Sullivan. “It’s totally none of your business.”
His half smile mocked me. “Maybe I’m inquisitive too.”
Tilting my head, I nodded toward the crowd below. “What’s your role in all this? Do you have a stable of fighters?”
The smile fell away, and his handsome face morphed, becoming h
arsh and serious. “Coming here wasn’t a smart move on your part. You should go home while you still can.”
My neck and shoulder muscles tightened. I couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but I could feel the ice behind them. The fact that he could switch from playful to menacing without skipping a beat chilled me inside and out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged a broad shoulder, appearing both aggressive and elegant at the same time. “A warning. A piece of advice. Take it any way you like.”
“It sounds like a threat to me.”
“No. I believe in making examples, not threats.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. I tried hard to breathe normally, despite my racing heart. “Who are you?”
“Ask your boyfriend. He’ll tell you all about me.” He smiled once more—all white teeth and arrogant charm. For the millionth time I wondered why Sullivan couldn’t run a nice, legitimate business.
This guy wanted to play games. I wanted to find a murderer. I stopped hedging around and got straight to the point. “Did you know Rob Huggins?”
That pale brow flicked again. “You asked if I did know him. I take it his body’s been found?” Was that an admission of guilt or a casual remark? “What a shame. He was this close to the finish line.” He talked about Rob’s death with the same blasé attitude that he’d use for noticing a scuff on his shoe.
I studied his profile, his impassive expression. “Did you have anything to do with his death?” I knew it was pointless, yet I had to ask.
Inclining his body toward mine, he kept his gaze trained on the fighters. “You don’t want to know. Otherwise, I’ll have to make an example out of you.”
I flinched at his words. When I’d first met Sullivan, he scared the ever-loving crap out of me. But from the beginning, there had been an attraction between us, a heat that bubbled and simmered, even though we were opponents. The only thing I felt for this man was fear and distaste.
I scrambled out of the chair and stumbled through the cluster of women surrounding his table. Glancing over my shoulder, I kept an eye on him as I made my way back to Roxy. “That guy’s a serious psycho.”
Diner Knock Out (A Rose Strickland Mystery Book 4) Page 12
